Saturday, October 16, 2010

Jupiter Vs Heather Locklear

So. My cat, Jupiter (aka Cat #5), has stress. I took him to the vet and the vet diagnosed him as being very stressed out. The vet then spun the chamber on a hefty automatic containing one bullet, shoved the barrel in my mouth, and screamed 'Your fucking cat has fucking stress!' and pulled the trigger. There was just a click as the hammer fell on an empty chamber. Phew.

Oh, hang on, I think I'm getting two things mixed up here.

It may not have happened quite that way. I did have a dream the other night where Kate Beckinsale was hunting me with a Russian KSVK 12.7 bolt action sniper rifle. And Cat #5 was more than likely on the bed purring in my ear whilst this was going on. It was a great dream. Beckinsale was looking good in fatigues.

I don't normally dream. Or if I do I don't usually remember what I've dreamed. Though as I drifted off that night, with Cat #5 sitting next to my pillow staring at me as though he'd never fucking seen me before, I was thinking through a scene in my next book where the lady villain lays down some sniper fire on some unfortunate people who really don't deserve it. But that character, in my brain, is based on Heather Locklear, not Kate Beckinsale. And she's using a 1950s Norwegian Mauser M59, not the 1990s KSVK.

Aaahhh. I see. I'm living in the past, and my subconscious is attempting to drag me up to date. It all makes perfect sense. And Cat #5 is obviously worrying his fur off when he sees the night time struggle that I'm going through. Locklear vs Beckinsale. Old guns vs new guns. TJ Hooker vs The Wire. And only Cat #5 sees me at night - contorted and physically wracked with conflict. He wants me to drag myself out of the '80s.

Well, fuck you Jupiter. And you too subconscious. When this book gets published and I sell the film rights -Fuck you Beckinsale, Locklear's getting the part.

So, anyway, my cat has stress. He's over-grooming apparently, which means he may go bald. Well, let me tell you, if he goes bald he's out. I'm not having a bald cat around the place. My life's fucking weird enough as it is.

Tuesday, October 05, 2010

Stewart Lee Came In My Shop

As I was saying..Well, okay, it's been six months since I wrote anything here, and the last post was, well, lacking shall we say. But then, Octopus 99 is a lacking blog.
I've been, well, busy. Three years running a shop. That ended last week. Thursday to be precise. And on Friday, as we spent the day clearing up, putting shit in bags & sweeping the floor & killing the moths and spiders, I went outside for a cigarette and Stewart Lee was looking in the window at a pile of Robert E Howard books I had left there. He looked exactly like Stewart Lee.

Over the years I have often thought I might have been a comedian. Too well adjusted, though. And too lazy. It would have meant actually doing something, writing stuff & shit. Anyway, I'm not a comedian and Stewart Lee is. So is Jerry Seinfeld.

Jerry Seinfeld never came in the shop, but Bruce Montague did. Yes, the Bruce Montague, off Butterflies, 1978-1983. Mrs Zero recognized him. I wouldn't have known him from a lump of pigeon shit. Maxwell Caulfield was in the same Goddamned play as him in Barnstaple and he didn't bother coming in our shop. The Maxwell The Colbys AND Dynasty AND Grease Fucking 2. That would have impressed me. What a fucker.
Other celebrities that didn't come in our shop : Simon Amstell, The Saturdays, er, Todd Carty (The Saturdays' Frankie Sandford, take away the wet-look leggings & you've got nothing...see Bugwar for details).

Anyway. If I had become a comedian I imagine I would have been in the vein of Stewart Lee, or Jerry Seinfeld, or Dennis Leary. But I didn't. This is probably principally because I'm not very funny. But as much as anything it's just as probable that I'm too fucking lazy and too well adjusted and couldn't possibly stand in front of a bunch of people trying to make them laugh. For one thing I don't like people enough to give a shit whether they think I'm funny or not. For another thing, I don't like people very much. I suspect that's probably the fault of the Coalition Government.
But I can die safe in the knowledge that, although I wouldn't have been anywhere near as funny as any of those three, I would definately have been funnier than Phil Fucking Jupitus. But then, who isn't funnier than Phil Fucking Jupitas? Eichmann was funnier. A lot funnier.

So Stuart Lee came in the shop at my invitation, and it was all I could do not to slobber over him as he bought two Robert E Howard books. I inhaled deeply on my Marlboro Silver as he left (cigarettes are colours Mediums, no Lights...nobody knows what the fuck they're smoking anymore, although I'm pretty sure SuperKings still kill you quicker than anything else), and he turned and came back and bought another Robert E Howard book. I swear to God I almost came.

As Stewart Lee drifted away I looked at the three pound coins in my sweating palm and wept.